


Telephone Line

by AequoAnimo



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Series 3, the MacDonald family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1679897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AequoAnimo/pseuds/AequoAnimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tomorrow, he'll write it off as a momentary lapse in judgment. He's been known to have more than his fair share of those over the years. And it's not as if he hasn't thought to call Malcolm before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telephone Line

**Author's Note:**

> Set immediately after Malcolm's sacking in Series 3. 
> 
> Title taken from the ELO song that is responsible for this.

Jamie did more tossing and turning than sleeping last night, but a promise is a promise and he's no longer in the business of breaking them. He's not sure how many more games of Pretty Pretty Princess he can take, especially since his girls discovered how the clip-on earrings bring out his eyes, so when Kate begged to play football last night, he breathed a sigh of relief and promised they'd play after school to enjoy the brief spell of sunshine.

 

He doesn't get everything right these days, but he's trying his best; he brings daisy bouquets to squeaky school orchestra concerts, makes sandwiches with the crusts cut off just the way Gillian likes it, and dutifully bids good night to each of Molly's plush rabbits before tucking her in to bed. Christ, he's even quit smoking. Perhaps it's the last vestige of Catholic guilt, but he hopes that somehow it'll make up for all the nights in London he came home closer to morning than their bedtime.

 

While the weans play outside, he sips his coffee against the gentle droning of the small television on the kitchen counter. An oil spill off California continues, a security scare keeps flights on the ground at Heathrow, yesteryear's squeaky-clean pop star is caught with coke.

 

Growing up, he never would have dreamt of having a second telly in the house, let alone one in his _kitchen._ But old habits die hard, as his ex-wife said when she dropped off the girls one day, shaking her head. He tells himself that he's cut all ties, that the telly's just there for the occasional mealtime football-viewing. He'll never admit that the little box pours a near-constant stream of news into his home.

 

When he lowers the mug from his face and glimpses the familiar black brick behind the reporter on the screen, the coffee nearly stops in his throat. He coughs, eyes wide as they catch the scarlet banner that screams “MALCOLM TUCKER RESIGNS.” It's almost blasphemous, to Jamie, that such a headline could be printed in the same crisp white letters used just moments before to describe a bunch of fucking greasy drowned seagulls. His grip on the mug tightens.

 

Jamie hasn't been back to Number 10 since the morning of Tom's coronation, not even stopping to clean out his messy desk. He preferred it that way, forcing Malcolm to confront it every time he entered the press room for weeks until Sam had the decency to clear it off. Based on what leaks out through the papers and occasional chats with some of the boys, he can only glean a few scraps of information about what's _really_ going on behind the wrought-iron fence, but he's sure of one thing: he'd better stock up on canned food, because reading that headline is the first sign of the fucking apocalypse.

 

He's certain that Malcolm wouldn't go without a fight. Anyone who wanted Malcolm gone would have to pry that job out of his cold, dead hands – Jamie clenches his eyes shut at the thought that brings to mind. He knows what it's like to be alienated from everything he held close, everything that defined him, but it's even worse for Malcolm, who has no family apart from a sister and a wee niece, no remaining friends, no life outside of Whitehall. Back in their hack days, back when they were working themselves to the bone day in and day out to move up, Malcolm had at least the ambition and dreams to keep him going even if all else fell away. But Malcolm built his life around this job, and now that he's reached the top and tumbled from it, Jamie's not sure what he has left to fall back upon.

 

Tomorrow, he'll write it off as a momentary lapse in judgment. He's been known to have more than his fair share of those over the years. And it's not as if he hasn't thought to call Malcolm before. Despite all of the times he's vowed never to forgive Malcolm for selling out to the new regime, all of the times he's pounded his fist against the wall in frustration and hissed his name through clenched teeth, he's entertained the thought on many occasions, but was never able to summon the gall to go through with it. But this time is different. This time Malcolm is in danger and Jamie, journalistic instincts still sharp, needs to hear from the source, because there are a million possibilities swirling about in his head and no answers other than _call Malcolm_.

 

Hands trembling, he dials the first three digits of Malcolm's personal line. He hesitates for a moment before pressing the green “call” button, but fuck it, his gut's already started to turn to steel. He jabs a thick finger at the touchscreen and holds the mobile to his ear.

 

He never had a chance to give Malcolm this number, acquired after he sent back his government-issued BlackBerry – although he knows that with Malcolm, there's never a guarantee that it's not already hidden in a dossier at the bottom of a filing cabinet. Still, there's a chance that the miserable cunt might pick up in the hope of shouting at prank-calling thirteen year olds. It wouldn't be the first time Jamie's seen him do it.

 

The line sounds a monotonous ring and he lets out his breath, relieved that it's still in service.

 

The flimsy back door swings open and his youngest, Molly, scampers in, all pigtails and missing teeth, just barely managing to clutch the mud-stained football under her arm.

 

“Da, you comin'? Gil's beatin' me out there and I need a keeper!”

 

He clicks the lock button on his mobile and prays she's too young to notice the way he's stretching his eyebrows and pulling his mouth into a grin. He swallows.

 

“Sure, love. Was just, er, checkin' my voicemail,” he says, shoving the phone deep in his pocket before crouching to her level. “Let's go show her just how tough you are, eh?”

 

She giggles and tosses the football into his arms. Through the doorway, he can see Gillian attempting a shaky cartwheel dangerously close to where Kate sits cross-legged in the grass, twisting dandelion stems into a knot.

 

Jamie gallops into a punt and relives his youth a bit too vividly, sending the ball flying straight into Mrs. Cunningham's patch of primroses over the fence. The girls whine his name in exaggerated tones of distress.

 

Jamie holds his fingers to his lips as he slips through the gate to retrieve it, hoping that Mrs. Cunningham won't peer out her window and screech at the middle-aged man trampling her flowers.

 

When he fishes it out of the bushes to his daughters' delight, punting with much more care this time, it's almost as if he hasn't tried to call Malcolm at all. He forgets for the moment, chasing the ball around the garden, shouting and laughing, letting a few goals in here and there to prevent any flare-ups of sibling rivalry.

 

But then night comes, as it has a nasty tendency to do, leaving him alone with his thoughts under the duvet. In London, worrying all night was Malcolm's job; Jamie could flip a switch in his head, crash into deep unconsciousness, and be ready in the morning to throw himself back into it all. He chalks it up to age and nicotine withdrawal.

 

By nighttime, whatever spark the news broadcast ignited has long since fizzled out. In Jamie's mind, fears now far outweigh any hopes of reconciliation. He shifts in bed for a while longer, questions coursing through his brain.

 

When he's had enough, his arm darts out from under the blanket to rifle through the bottom drawer of his bedside table. Buried beneath the clutter he's accumulated over the past couple of years, he finds the box. Just one, just this once.

 

He stands by the open window, smoking his first fag in months, thankful that the girls aren't awake to see one of his many vices resurface. The rain is back, pouring just as it did yesterday and will tomorrow.

 

Malcolm doesn't need him anyway, he thinks, blowing smoke into the cool night. After all, he made that quite clear the last time they saw each other. Why should Jamie think anything has changed?

 

Four hundred miles south, Malcolm Tucker lies on his sofa in the darkness, hands covering his worn face. 


End file.
